


In Recompense

by eyeus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Snupin Summer Fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-18 10:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8158882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeus/pseuds/eyeus
Summary: “To be free of your lycanthropy,” the old witch tells Remus, “you must sacrifice something dear in exchange. And considering the nature of your curse…the dearest.”Remus never realized it meant Severus.





	1. Possibilities Known

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2016 Lupin_Snape Summerfest on LJ, for [this](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/WC%20Prompt.png~original) prompt here. The concepts of the shop that can only be seen by those who need something, and the witch within who grants wishes are borrowed from xxxHolic.

~

“He’ll be here soon,” Remus says, reassuring. He flicks a worried glance at the hall clock, just to be sure.

“I certainly hope so,” sniffs Severus, of the usual visitor they’re expecting. “Or you’ll have to clear off the rest of these scones, because I’m not letting them go to waste.”

Remus only laughs, because clearing away extra food when they’ve made too much of it is only one of the things he’s grown used to while living with Severus. And certainly not one he’d complain about.

They’d been woken early by the sound of a Muggle rubbish truck, their neighbourhood being primarily Muggle. Severus had sold the house at Spinner's End, and together, they'd put what money they'd had toward a modest little house, one closer to Wizarding London and the creature comforts it offered. Still, Remus had taken the opportunity to enjoy everything else about the morning, despite the bad start: the sun was only a streak of ruby light on the opposing wall, the neighbours were unusually quiet, and he’d had an arm curled around Severus’ waist, the two of them slotted together, perfect, warm, Severus’ neck at just the right height for Remus to press kisses into, feather-light and sweet.

After another hour of sharing kisses and teasing touches, they’d got up to take a shower together—Severus said it saved water, though Remus suspects they waste more of it than on their individual showers combined—then made breakfast, Severus heaping freshly pressed waffles on two plates, while Remus prepared bangers and porridge, all without the use of magic. There was something about cooking together in their little kitchen that Remus always enjoyed, and without the use of heating or monitoring charms, it felt that much more organic and _real_.

Then Severus had gone off to putter about in the tiny lab they’d set up in the room beside the kitchen—it only made sense to have cooking and brewing implements next to each other, Severus reasoned—while Remus hummed a mangled version of Celestina Warbeck’s _You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me_ , and made tea for the two of them, a dash of milk in his own, and two sugars on the side for Severus’.

In short, it’d been a day like any other. 

Now, Severus reclines in his chair by the fire, the Daily Prophet clutched in one hand, relaxing after an hour of scone-baking, while Remus sifts through their daily mail, as they await their visitor.

There are cleaning product ads, all of them poor variations of Bundimun Ooze and inferior to what Severus can brew, followed by flyers for Weasely’s Wizard Wheezes, and one belated congratulation on Remus and Severus’ wedding. Those were still trickling in, months after the fact; though most of their friends knew they were together by now, and had been for quite some years, it seemed some people were still in denial or just overcoming their shock that a wedding—an unofficial little ceremony, because they couldn’t be _overt_ about it, under the circumstances—had actually happened. 

Even news of their _being_ together had come as a surprise to all and sundry several years ago, Remus remembers fondly. 

Minerva had invited Remus to Hogwarts—on Hagrid’s recommendation—to speak about acromantulas and grindylows in the Care of Magical Creatures class, offering a generous reimbursement for his troubles. She’d reassured him this would circumvent the Anti-Werewolf legislation that hadn’t been successfully repealed yet, since, as a guest speaker, he _technically_ wasn’t being employed by Hogwarts. 

That same morning, Remus had discovered another hole in his already threadbare robes. They’d been living frugally to save up for the other house, which meant no new clothes, dinners out, or extravagances of any kind, as Severus’ owl-order potions business brought in little enough as it was. And unknown to Severus at the time, Remus had been saving up for a modest pair of men’s wedding rings. So he _needed_ to make a good impression this time at Hogwarts. _Needed_ this job, however short the duration. He’d fretted about the hole for an hour—mending charms were ineffective, there was no material with which he could patch it on hand, and simply wearing his Muggle clothes to the class would be frowned upon—when, finally, Severus swept into their room with a set of his own robes and a matching button-down, cleaned and pressed and thankfully hole-free, for Remus to wear. 

So Remus showed up in Severus’ attire, sharp, austere and black as the night, even if the ensemble was a bit tight in the shoulders, to speak about Dark creatures, while Hagrid nodded approvingly. But one class turned into two, then _three_ , then dinner at the High Table as a guest of honour—Remus felt strangely bereft not having Severus by his side, something he’d grown used to in the year he’d taught at Hogwarts, and the years after—at the price of being the newest subject of gossip. Rumours had spread from Pomona, the worst of the gossipmongers, to Filius, then Minerva, and finally to the rest of the staff, before trickling their way down to the students. 

_Professor Lupin spotted wearing Professor Snape’s clothes!_ the furtive, excited whispers said. The excitement had sprung up in the seventh-years, who still remembered Remus and Severus as their professors. It then spread like wildfire to the younger students, who were simply thrilled about the novelty of one professor supposedly wearing another’s clothes, yet another thing to titter about in the late hours.

_Boyfriend robes?_ inquired some whispers, hushed.

_Boyfriend robes_ , the general Hogwarts public agreed. And through a flurry of charmed paper message birds and missives home, the wizarding public as well. 

By the next day, everyone and their mother seemed suddenly aware of Remus and Severus’ relationship, and despite the few incendiary Howlers, they’d received several congratulatory owls, including one from Ron and Hermione that said, _Blimey, Remus, I don’t know why you didn’t just_ tell _us_ , coupled with a generous gift card to a Muggle houseware shop.

Upon discovering that their secret was out, Severus had only snorted, as if the whole debacle was a waste of time. And done absolutely nothing to disabuse the wizarding world at large of the notion that he and Remus were…involved. 

Of course, none of this had been a surprise to Harry, who’d caught them snogging like desperate teenagers in a darkened stairway at Grimmauld Place after an Order meeting, even before the Hogwarts debacle. Remus had worried that each kiss, each moment with Severus would be the last, because every time Severus was called away by his master, he’d taken longer and longer to come back, each time worse for wear, until Remus wasn’t sure Severus _would_ come back. Harry had taken the unexpected revelation with a surprising amount of grace, however; more than Sirius had, at any rate.

There’s a sharp rap at the door, startling Remus from his woolgathering—that must be Harry at the door now.

“Finally,” Severus breathes, casting his eyes skyward. 

He’d been settled in their brocade wingback chair with the Daily Prophet and a cup of tea for the last half hour, crossing and uncrossing his legs. Mumbling about how _terribly_ inconvenient it was, for ‘Potter’ to come calling so _early_ , though Remus knows he’s grudgingly grateful for the way Harry had cleared his name after the war, and for the news Harry brings. And that’s most often the goings-on at the Ministry, the things the Daily Prophet never reports on. But when there’s time—when Harry doesn’t have to rush off to a Quidditch game with Ron, or Remus and Severus haven’t an appointment with cryptic clients for questionable potions—Remus suspects Harry comes to hear Remus’ recollections about James and Sirius. And when Severus can be bribed into it, with an offering of expensive honey biscuits, sharing his recollections of Lily. 

Remus can hardly blame the boy; he and Severus are likely Harry’s last links to his parents now.

Harry seems to have something entirely different on his mind today, however. 

“Neville told me he found something the other day,” Harry says, apropos of nothing. “Something peculiar. Or some _one_ , rather.” 

He’s barely touched the cheddar scone on his plate, tearing it up instead and pushing the crumbs around, to Severus’ dismay. Ignored the artfully arranged plate of lemon biscuits and raspberry crèmes, and taken only one sip of his chamomile tea. That he’s also skipped the perfunctory Ministry commentary, and what Severus calls the delightful ‘Who’s Been Sacked’ report speaks to the urgency of the matter at hand.

“Oh?” says Remus. From the chair by the fire, he can see Severus pause in his supposed perusal of the paper, his curiosity clearly piqued. Perhaps one day he will give up the pretence of aloofness and join Remus and Harry in the living room proper. But it is not this day. 

“She told Neville she was a travelling witch. From, er—I don’t know, one of those countries whose names are hard to say,” Harry explains sheepishly. 

Remus nods. Gypsy witches were common in the Eastern European countries, and were known to move through England on occasion. 

“She also told him she could grant wishes.” Harry’s eyes widen, and he shivers, as if he’s remembering Neville’s tale of the encounter. “For a price.”

Remus feels a frisson of fear skitter down his own spine. “And did Neville tell you what he wished for? That is, if he _made_ a wish—”

“Oh, yeah,” says Harry. “He made one, all right. Wouldn’t tell me what he wished for, but he told me he got it.” He pauses to draw a sharp breath. “Gave me a warning, too: ‘be careful what you wish for’.”

“Yes, that would be common sense,” says Severus, as if he’s been part of their conversation all along. He straightens his issue of the Daily Prophet with an irritable snap. “However, it can be said that common sense is not quite so _common_ these days.”

Harry ignores him, and leans in conspiratorially. “Apparently, she’s set up a shop,” he says. “Down in Knockturn Alley. You can only see it if there’s something important you want though, strangely enough.” Harry pauses. “I went, you know. Just to see.”

“And did you find anything?” Remus asks, nudging a raspberry crème in Harry’s direction. Severus looks on, approving; Remus knows Severus would hex him if he dared offer the sacred lemon ones they’d placed on the plate for show. “The shop itself, perhaps?” He holds back the disapproving frown that’s threatening to surface, at the thought of Harry wandering around _Knockturn Alley_ , of all places.

“Yeah,” says Harry. He takes the offered biscuit, grateful. “It’s quite clever, really. Not even hidden between shops or anything. Just sits in an empty space labelled ‘Under Renovation’.” He pauses. “Well—that’s what you see, if there’s nothing the shop can help you with. I took Hermione to look, and she told me she was busy enough without me wasting her time, taking her to an empty husk still under reconstruction from the war.” He smiles, like that’s proof enough of the magic of the place. 

Remus hums encouragingly, as Harry stops for a sip of tea before continuing his story of this strange shop. 

“I…” Harry looks in Severus’ direction, before lowering his voice, as if what he says will remain a secret between him and Remus—it won’t, really, since Severus hears _everything_ , and there aren’t any secrets between him and Remus anyway, not since the war ended—but Remus leans forward, quiet, to give him the illusion of secrecy anyway. “I tried to wish for something,” Harry admits. “I...I wished for my parents back.”

Remus’ breath catches in his throat. To be able to enjoy the company of James and Lily again _would_ be something, wouldn’t it? It would be nothing short of a miracle. He glances in Severus’ direction, quick, and gets an eyeroll in return.

“Oh, yes, a very Gryffindor reunion,” Severus says with a scowl. He tosses a haughty glance at Remus, as if to say, _Now you need only use your wish to wish Black back into existence, and your little club will be complete_. 

Remus sighs. “And did she…? Did the witch…” Remus leans even further forward, in spite of himself, knowing he’s far too invested in the answer.

“No,” says Harry, deflating a little in his seat. He stirs another dash of milk into his tea. “She said there wasn’t a way to bring back the dead.” Before a palpable gloom can settle over the room, however, Harry adds brightly, “Maybe there’s something for _you_ , though, Remus. You know, like a cure for lycanthro—”

“Doubtful,” Severus cuts in, immediately. He folds the paper shut in crisp, neat lines., having finished perusing whatever articles interest him—not many, he often says, and the reports that _are_ available are severely lacking in details and well-researched information both. “If she promises such a thing, she’s likely just another snake oil saleswoman.”

Remus hums, non-committal, like he only has a passing interest in what Harry’s told him; he’s heard the promise of a ‘cure’ for so many years, that he’s almost stopped believing. After Harry’s left, however, mumbling about needing to browse a few more shops for the _right ring_ , the _perfect ring_ for Ginny—poor boy had got it into his head that Ginny would refuse him if he offered an inferior ring, though Remus told him his sincerity and not the ring would win him her hand in marriage—Remus joins Severus in the sitting room, the two of them moving naturally to sit together on the loveseat.

“Go on,” Severus says abruptly, when Remus opens his mouth to speak. “You’re curious about what he said, aren’t you?”

Remus only laughs. He’s never been able to fool Severus like this. “I do live in hope, but this sounds too good to be true.”

“Well, I’m sure you know what I think of this,” Severus sniffs haughtily. “That it’s just another quack selling ‘cures’ to the desperate.” He pauses, his eyes dark with dismay. “Promising things they have no right to promise.”

“I know,” says Remus, slipping an arm around Severus’ shoulders and chafing warmth into the shoulder farthest. Lets his thumb trace the line of Severus’ collarbone, affectionate, grateful for his concern. Of course Severus would try to protect him by providing the harshest truth possible. “I _know_ , yet I can’t help but wonder. What if?” he says, his eyes shining. 

Remus would no longer have to trouble Severus for the Wolfsbane potion each month. He would be able to hold down a job—a proper wizarding one, and not just the secretive shifts at Flourish and Blotts when the autumn rush of children proved too much to handle. Or the sleepy afternoons at the Muggle bookshop down the street from them, when the shopkeeper wanted more time with her children. 

And the bone-rending pain of the transformation he suffered at the full moon, that made Remus ache for _days_ afterward? He could finally be free of that as well.

_What if_ , Remus thinks wistfully.

“Yes,” says Severus, quiet, his voice hollow. His skin is cool against Remus’ touch, no matter how much Remus tries to rub warmth into it. He stares at a point somewhere in the distance, gaze unusually unfocused, as he lets out a slow, shaky breath. “What if.”

~

Eventually, curiosity gets the better of Remus, and he follows the directions Harry owls him, along with his poorly drawn squiggle of a map—a draughtsman of the Marauder’s Map Harry was _not_ —starting off by wending his way past Borgin and Burkes. Sneaking past the apothecary Severus frequents for less than savoury potions ingredients. And after navigating a series of sharp turns and one surprise drop of a stair, Remus finds himself staring at a dark, dusty little shop. It looks almost as if it fits in among the other eerie shops surrounding it, though as Harry reported, there’s a ragged piece of parchment with the words ‘UNDER RENOVATION’ affixed to the window.

Remembering Harry’s advice, Remus holds the thought of _needing_ something from this place at the forefront of his mind. Focuses on it, letting his feelings surrounding what he wants rising to the surface.

So it’s hardly a surprise when Remus finds, after such single-minded concentration, that another set of words appears within the ragged parchment, browned and curled, written in an old and sprawling script: _Irina’s Imperatives_. 

A light flickers within the shop, weak, like that of a wan, sputtering candle. It’s as much invitation as Remus will receive, he supposes, and he takes a step forward. 

“Hello?” Remus calls, as he eases the door open. He steps over the threshold of the shop, his wand out and at the ready, just in case.

The interior of the shop gives him a distinctly unsettling feeling; there are neither monkey’s paws nor hands of glory or even shrunken house elf heads lining the shelves, but still, the hair on the back of Remus’ neck stands on end as he wanders further in. Along the walls are jars of organs, suspended in murky liquid. Frames for old art pieces, their canvases torn and curled from the passage of time. A chipped vase, housing several scrolls with faded writing. A sword, blade rusted and jewelled hilt robbed of its precious stones. A broken lantern, lit from within by an eerie, unearthly light.

Not for the first time, Remus wishes Severus was here with him. But Severus had opted to stay at home, because according to him, _someone_ had to keep brewing potions to secure their finances while Remus was off chasing pipe dreams.

“Is anyone here?” Remus tries again. 

He’s greeted only with silence and the creak of his own weight on the dusty floorboards. Remus sighs and shrugs, turning to go, when a tiny cough seizes his attention. 

Hating to be caught unaware, Remus whirls around, and catches sight of a witch, bent with age, as she leans on a knobbed walking stick, a ratty woollen shawl pulled loose around her shoulders.

“Er, hello,” Remus tries, before finding his tongue again. “A friend of mine said I might find what I’d been searching for here.”

The witch—Irina, presumably—hobbles forward, her walking stick making a deep and dull _clack_ on the floorboards with each step. “And what is it that you are searching for?”

Remus doubts he’ll find what he needs here, in this run-down hovel of a shop; it has neither ingredients for potions nor books for complicated spellwork, only vestiges of other wizards’ possessions, in what he surmises is payment. But then again, he has nothing to lose by revealing what it is he most dearly wants. “A cure,” he says simply.

“There are cures for many ailments,” says the witch. She draws the shawl around her shoulders tighter, impatient. “You will have to provide more detail than that.” She narrows her eyes, however, taking in Remus’ scars, his gaunt frame, as if she has already guessed his secret. “Quickly, now!”

“Very well,” says Remus. “I seek a cure to rid myself of the lycanthropy that’s plagued me since I was a child.”

The witch strokes her chin, pensive. “You wish to be free of such a curse? Yes…yes, that can be done. But you must sacrifice something dear in exchange,” she says solemnly.

“Something dear?” Remus echoes, furrowing a brow. 

“Considering the nature of your curse,” says the witch thoughtfully, “the _dearest_.”

Remus knows better than anyone that the Dark Arts—for that is what this surely must be—are rooted in sacrifice. That they involve giving up something most precious, in exchange for what one sorely _needs_. “And what might that be?” he asks.

The witch wags a bony, withered finger at him. “Only you know the answer to that,” she replies. 

Remus wonders if it’s his magic that this cure will take from him, dooming him to live life as a squib. If it’s his father’s watch, that he’s kept running all these years. His mother’s hand-knit afghan, made from the softest wool, that’s kept him warm, even on the darkest and coldest of nights, before he’d known the warmth and bliss to be found with another person. 

He certainly doesn’t have much in the way of savings to lose.

“All right,” he says, after some deliberation. “But first I’d like to know if there’s a way to…to try it out. To know if it really works.”

The witch pauses, as if considering his question. “You will have three moons,” she says, holding up three gnarly fingers, “to determine the efficacy of the cure. After that, you must decide whether you wish for the change to be permanent, or to return to what you were before.”

When Remus nods in understanding, the witch guides him to what looks like a modified pentagram scratched in chalk on the wooden floorboards. Sketches various symbols into its design, including a full moon, an eye, and other less decipherable designs within. Presses a blade to the pad of his thumb, drawing blood, letting the drops sink into the runes etched within the circle. And when Remus stands inside the circle, the witch draws forth her wand, uttering an incantation.

A column of cold, blue light emanates from the drawn design. The incanted words are haunting, the language not one Remus recognizes, despite his extensive studies—perhaps Severus could shed light on it later—but then a dark, pervading cold seeps into his bones, his very being, and he has no inclination to wonder at the source of the language any longer. 

It is Dark magic, old and dangerous, and Remus shivers as the cold spreads to his limbs. His spine. Numbs the very heart of him with each second that passes, filling him with a sense of deep and sinking dread. 

But just as suddenly as it starts, the ritual is over, and the witch stands back. Nods, satisfied, as if the spell is complete. 

Remus blinks. “Is that it? It’s over?” He hadn’t expected wizarding fireworks or a cake to celebrate, but the entire ritual just seems so…lacklustre. 

The witch simply snorts and leans on her walking stick, before starting to hobble away. “Return after the third moon,” she says, throwing Remus a dark look over her shoulder. “Tell me then, whether you wish to maintain this arrangement, or not. But remember, the price, once paid, cannot be reversed.”

With those chilling words of parting, Remus is left alone in the shop once again, surrounded by shelves filled with oddities and layered with decades of dust, in the dark.

~

“Well?” says Severus, when Remus returns that evening, with bags of potions ingredients and the week’s groceries in tow. He’d decided to take the bus home instead of Apparating, since the ritual seemed to drain him of all energy, and it wouldn’t do to waste the bus fare home, hence the impromptu shopping. “Did your visit to Knockturn Alley yield the answer you hoped it would?”

Remus makes a non-committal hum. “I suppose we’ll simply have to wait for the next full moon to find out.” The next one is due to rise in three nights, so they won’t have long to wait, either way. “If it works,” Remus adds cheerfully, “I’ll no longer have to trouble you for the Wolfsbane potion each month.”

Severus had made a habit of brewing it every month without fail, even making it in advance for circumstances when he had to be away. 

To Remus’ surprise, Severus only frowns at that and waves a hand. “It’s been no trouble at all,” he says, quiet. He spends a moment levitating their groceries into the kitchen, silent, though Remus can tell Severus himself is distracted, from the way the apples bump clumsily into the refrigerator door several times before dropping neatly into the crisper. 

Finally, Severus breaks the silence between them. “What you wished for is obvious,” he says, “but what _I_ want to know is the price extracted for such a wish.”

Remus frowns, trying to recall the witch’s exact words. “She said the price would be something dear to me. I can only assume it would be something of equal value to the wish.”

“I see,” Severus says, folding his arms over his chest. He’s clearly troubled by the implications of this exchange, but Remus doesn’t know how to assuage his fears, other than in the ways he knows how. 

“Come here,” Remus says softly, leading Severus to the loveseat. Lets them sink deep into plush, worn cushions, for the familiar comfort of _home_ , before drawing Severus into his arms, slow. Loosens the black silk cravat Severus has taken to wearing to hide the scars at his throat, and tugs him in for a kiss, unhurried and sweet. “I’ve three moons to find out what it is this cure will cost me,” he says, because there are no secrets between them. Not anymore. “And if the price is too high…” Remus pauses, wondering just what he might consider _too high_. “I simply won’t go through with it.”

Severus doesn’t seem placated by Remus’ answer, but he does partake in the kisses Remus bestows upon him, closing the distance between them by pulling Remus in closer, tighter. “What if,” Severus says haltingly, “the price of your cure is…”

“Yes?” asks Remus. He strokes a finger against the furrow between Severus’ brows, to soothe it away; he’s made it his goal to encourage the laugh lines on Severus’ face, the tiny crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, of which there are so dreadfully _few_. To ease the ones created from a lifetime of anger and sorrow.

Severus shakes his head. “No, it could never be… _that_ ,” he says, after a moment’s thought. “I’m sure I have nothing to worry about.”

“No,” Remus agrees, unsure of what it is Severus thinks Remus could lose. But he can’t bear the soft, hurt look in Severus’ eyes, the flash of vulnerability Severus tries so hard to hide. “You have nothing to worry about.”

And he leads Severus by the hand to their bedroom, to show him just that.

~

When the night of the full moon approaches, Remus and Severus take the usual measures in preparation for Remus’ change: Severus checks that the wards on the house are secure so Remus can’t escape, makes sure Remus takes his last dose of Wolfsbane, and settles in his wingback chair by the fire with a book, because more often than not, he sits up with Remus through the change.

It doesn’t make it _easier_ in any way, but Severus seems to have sensed that Remus feels safer, secure, when there’s someone familiar nearby. When someone Remus _loves_ is nearby, Remus thinks to himself, with a smile—even if Severus hems and haws, and insists he’s not sitting up with Remus, that he simply refuses to be chased from his own sitting room.

Remus, for his part, folds and puts his clothes away like usual, and stretches out on the rug they’ve set by the fire. 

“Severus,” Remus says quietly. He sits up and touches Severus’ knee, gentle. “If this doesn’t work—”

“—then you will be the same as you ever were,” Severus says, waving a hand dismissively. As if whether the cure works or not is of little consequence. He hesitates, before reaching out slowly to cradle Remus’ cheek in his palm. Traces his thumb over the scar across Remus’ cheek, the motion unexpectedly tender. “I have lived with the wolf this long; a few more years will make no difference.”

Except when Remus looks into Severus’ eyes, he can see the hope of more than a _few_ years; he sees his own hope of _decades_ , perhaps even the rest of their lifetimes reflected in them. For that alone, Remus is immensely grateful, and he turns into Severus’ touch, nuzzling, affectionate. Safe.

Before long, the feared visage of the moon rises above the trees, silver, beautiful, haunting, and Remus prepares himself for the change, crouching low to the rug by the fire. Waits for the agonizing process of skin splitting, bones rearranging and limbs lengthening, until he becomes the beast that’s lived inside him for so long, once again. 

A minute ticks by. Then another. Then _another_. 

Except nothing happens, and Remus is left crouching awkwardly on the rug. Eventually, Remus sits up, feeling like a fool, and Severus drapes a blanket around his shoulders, in lieu of clothes.

“Do you feel any differently?” Severus asks, uncertain, securing the blanket around Remus’ shoulders with a tidy little knot, when Remus simply blinks at him.

Remus’ skin itches in certain patches, and his eyes must have watered a little as the moon rose, but there is otherwise no real change of note. “No,” he says finally. “No, I feel…fine.”

He doesn’t put his clothes on for the rest of the night, since they’re not so well-off that Remus can afford to burst out of his clothes at a moon’s notice, but with the blanket draped around his shoulders, Remus feels well enough to enjoy a glass of wine and engage in a game of chess with Severus.

Neither of them sleep for the entire night. 

Severus sits up with Remus the entire time, watching, waiting, and finally dozing on Remus’ shoulder on the loveseat once the moon starts to sink back beneath the clouds. He wakes with a start when Remus tries to shift a pillow beneath Severus’ head, so he won’t wake with a crick in his neck. 

“What—” Severus tries. He licks his lips, his mouth dry. “Did it work?” He clutches at Remus’ shoulders, his forearms, freer with his touches when he’s had little sleep. “Remus?”

“Oh, Severus,” Remus says, throwing his arms around Severus’ neck. “It works. It _works_.” His voice is a hushed whisper, even in his elation, as if he doesn’t dare believe. Like if he speaks too loudly, it will no longer be true. 

Even as he says it, however, Remus is struck by an odd sense of loss, as if he’s given up a part of himself in exchange. 

_Something dear_ , the witch had said. _Something precious_. 

But as Remus watches the moon give way to the first, rose-hued rays of the sun for the first time, free of the bone-rending transformations that have plagued him all his life, he thinks it may just be worth it.

~

By the next day, Remus still hasn’t figured out what he’s given up, but whatever it is, it can’t have been too bad. His parents’ possessions are still intact, after all, as his magic, so all in all, Remus counts himself lucky.

He and Severus are due to meet another of Severus’ shady clients soon—Severus supplements their income by taking confidential potions requests that can’t be owled— so Remus busies himself with making tea before the meeting. Severus is always more agreeable after he’s had one cup, even more so after two, and Remus hums to himself as he slips a spoon of milk into his own and brings the tray out into the sitting room, where Severus is curled in one corner of their loveseat, Remus’ woollen afghan sprawled over his knees. 

Severus takes one look at the tray, which Remus has taken care to pile high with biscuits of the malt and chocolate variety, and wrinkles his nose in distaste. 

“Your head must be in the clouds today,” Severus says waspishly. “Two sugars on the side, Remus.” He taps the tray, as if to draw attention to the absence of the two sugar cubes. “The _usual_. Or have you forgotten?”

“Right,” Remus blinks, startled. “Sorry, distracted. Important meeting and all today.” Had Severus always taken his tea with two sugars on the side? It seemed like such a little thing, but then again, Remus had always prided himself on remembering little things about people. Especially Severus. 

It was one of the ways Remus had won his heart, after all. 

“You’ve never—” Severus starts, irritated, before his eyes widen for a fraction of a second. “Oh,” he breathes, blinking. And then, more softly, “Oh.”

“What is it?” Remus asks. 

“Nothing,” says Severus, recovering quickly and scowling. “We have a client to meet at the White Wyvern in less than an hour, and their request is time-sensitive.” He motions at the things they have yet to pack for the meeting, after they finish their tea. “So hurry _up_.”

Hurry Remus does, in an attempt to make up for the tea fiasco, though in his haste, he accidentally packs Doxy wings instead of fairy wings in Severus’ Portable Potions Kit, the PPK—Remus’ pet name for Severus’ on-the-go brewing satchel.

“Remind me again,” Severus says, picking out the jar of Doxy wings and carefully replacing it with the more precious fairy wings, “why I put up with you.” He fixes Remus with a look of what seems like abject scorn, though it lacks the heat of years past.

“Hmm,” Remus says, pretending to seriously ponder the question, even as he slips arms around Severus’ waist, in apology. “The scintillating conversation? A warm body in bed at night?” He nudges his front against Severus’ backside, teasing. “Perhaps _more_ than a warm body in bed at night?”

“The question was entirely rhetorical,” Severus snorts, though Remus can see the hint of the smile he’s teased from Severus. Yes, _there_ it is, tiny and secret and soft, among the hard lines of Severus’ mouth. 

“So was my answer,” grins Remus. Scintillating conversations, indeed. Confusing, too, and maddening at times. And Remus wouldn’t give it up for anything.

For their exchange, Remus is rewarded with a chuckle from Severus, quiet and low, nearly disguised within a breath, though Remus catches it all the same.

Then they’re off to the nearest Apparition point, and as Severus puts his arm in Remus’ so they can Apparate together, Remus puts that morning’s events out of mind, too happy to have teased a genuine laugh out of Severus.

~

When the week of the second full moon arrives, Severus insists on brewing the Wolfsbane as usual, and Remus can’t find it in himself to resist, because the _what if’s_ and _perhaps the first night was just coincidence_ still plague him.

But their precautions, wards, and Wolfsbane potion are all for naught, because the night Remus stretches out on the hearth rug, ready for the moon full in the sky and the transformation from man to beast, it doesn’t happen.

“ _Severus_ ,” Remus whispers, barely able to contain his glee. He shifts his way onto the loveseat and grips Severus by the shoulders. “It really _works_. I didn’t think it’d still—but it _does_ —and it’s _wonderful_.”

“Yes,” echoes Severus. “Wonderful.” The corners of his mouth are tight—with anxiety or worry, Remus doesn’t know—and it’s on the tip of his tongue to ask _what’s wrong_ or _why can’t you be happy for me_ , because this distance Severus has created between them is new. But this isn’t the time for an argument. And Remus doesn’t know how to bridge that distance, except with what he knows works best. 

He doesn’t try to convince Severus that this is a good thing. Doesn’t try to sell him on all the ways it can benefit them. Just tugs Severus into his arms, holding him, his small way of celebrating this miracle, even if Severus can’t share in his joy. Frames Severus’ face with his hands, and touches their foreheads together, gentle. 

“I’m just…so happy,” Remus murmurs near Severus’ mouth, warm. Hoping a little of his happiness will spill over to Severus, to lift his spirits from whichever depths they’ve sunk to, for whatever reason. 

Severus draws in a tight breath, and closes his eyes. “I know,” he says, his hands coming to cover Remus’. He swallows, hard. “I _know_.”

Remus had never believed in this so-called ‘cure’, never thought to put stock into some old witch in an obscured and dirty shop. But being able to sit here on the loveseat and hold his lover in the light of the full moon is more than he ever hoped for, and his heart feels so _full_ that he has to tug Severus in closer, kiss him in his joy, and _oh_ Severus’ mouth is warm and sweet, and Remus can’t help but remember the first time they’d kissed, secret and soft, in the room where—

In the moment before they—

A tiny panic seizes Remus’ heart, because he finds he can’t remember, no matter how hard he tries to draw up the memory. Because it’s something he swore he’d never forget.

“What is it?” Severus asks, immediate. As if Remus has given himself and his worry away with the tic of an eye. The stutter of a breath. “ _Remus_ ,” he says, slipping a hand to the nape of his neck to calm him. To steady him. “What’s wrong?”

“I,” Remus tries, swallowing, as if doing so will tamp down on the panic that’s welling up in his chest, the fear rising in his heart, threatening to spill over. “I was just thinking about our first kiss.” He ducks away, embarrassed, in case Severus plans to berate him for being overly maudlin. 

Severus stiffens in Remus’ arms for a moment, but only nods solemnly, as if to say, _go on_.

“I just…I can’t remember where it happened. Or _when_.” Remus looks at Severus, plaintive, too glad for the way Severus folds him into his arms, the motion making Remus feel protected, safe. “Severus? What’s happening to—”

Severus silences him with a kiss, swift, demanding, chasing all coherent thought from Remus’ mind. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he says, when they both draw away for air. And before Remus can protest that their first kiss was far from _nothing_ , he hurries on to add, “Perhaps things from the distant past are harder to remember.”

“Perhaps,” Remus says, nodding his agreement. Loses himself in more kisses and the warmth of Severus’ arms for the rest of the night, though that feeling, that trickle of dread that’s built up in his chest, still remains long after the sun has come up.

~

The third moon passes with just as little fanfare as the second.

Remus drinks the Wolfsbane potion diligently, as always, Severus puts up the wards, and together, the two of them settle in the sitting room to await the change. When it doesn’t happen—as expected, since the first two times have demonstrated that this supposed ‘cure’ works—Remus cautiously decides that this is a cause for celebration. 

Severus breaks out a tin of butter biscuits, the expensive ones from Minerva to celebrate their union, while Remus casts a heating charm on the kettle to brew tea, giddy with joy at the thought of being able to do this for the rest of his life—being able to watch the full moon in all its splendour. To stay up with the one he loves and enjoy tea and biscuits and all the little mundanities other people take for granted. 

“I’ve decided,” Remus says, eyes shining, when they’ve settled back on the loveseat. He gestures between himself and the moon, the doomed relationship he’s been forced into all these years. “I’ve wanted this for so long—to be free of the curse that’s plagued me all my life. And now I finally have that chance.” This freedom is so close to being his, to being _permanent_ that he can taste it. 

He chances a glance at Severus, whose eyes have grown wide, and uncharacteristically soft. “Severus? What’s wrong?” This anxiety that’s plagued Severus has been festering for long enough, and—

“Nothing is _wrong_ ,” Severus snaps. He looks away, picking at the frayed binding of the book in his lap, a treatise on the use of Stinksap in topical pain treatments. “I was simply thinking of the hassle it will be to repot all the Mandrakes soon.”

Remus knows there is more on Severus’ mind than the Mandrakes growing in their small study-turned-greenhouse, so he simply waits. Gives Severus the time to say what's truly on his mind. When no explanation is forthcoming, however, Remus decides a change of subject is in order. If Severus did not wish to speak of something, even pain of death couldn't force it from him.

“Tomorrow,” Remus says decisively. “I’ll go back to Knockturn Alley and see the witch. Make the change permanent.” _You’ll never have to suffer the wolf again_ , Remus thinks. 

“Oh, yes,” Severus echoes hollowly. “Permanent.” He’s oddly listless for the rest of the night, letting himself be held and touched and loved, but doing nothing to initiate in return. Like he’s withdrawing, retreating back into a safe, fortified shell to hide himself from hurt, and none of Remus’ attempts to coax him from his cocoon have any effect.

Remus is up with the sun the next morning, letting Severus sleep in. Takes care, within his morning routine, to dress in his newer robes, shave carefully in the mirror, and comb his messy hair just so, more of it coming in silver than brown now, because _today_ will bring a new change, the kind that will affect the rest of his life. 

He fixes his own breakfast, and leaves Severus’ share beneath an inverted bowl, with a warming charm cast on it just in case. With any luck, he’ll finish up at Knockturn Alley and be back just before Severus wakes. With the _best_ luck, he’ll be there and back with time left to watch Severus sleep and kiss him awake, the way he knows Severus loves to be woken, even if he’ll never admit it.

Which is why it’s a surprise when Severus catches him at the door and snags a fistful of Remus’ robes, frantic. “Where are you—” he starts.

“Only to Knockturn Alley,” says Remus. He places a palm over Severus’ hand, reassuring. The sight of Severus in his dressing gown—flannel and forest-green, Remus’ gift from the Christmas past—hastily thrown on and his feet clad in Remus’ old slippers makes something bright and warm bloom in Remus’ chest. Makes him reach out with his free hand, to card fingers through Severus’ hair, fond, the lovely mess of it soft and tangled from sleep.

“Oh,” Severus says. He blinks, and rubs the sleep from his eyes. “Yes, of course.” He swallows audibly, like there’s a lump of emotion in his throat he has to swallow around, before repeating, _yes of course_ , his fingers lingering on Remus’ robes, as if he’s loath to let go. 

“I won’t be long,” Remus promises, and he leans in to press a kiss to Severus’ mouth. It’s just a small, sweet peck, like any other _have a good day_ or _see you soon_ kiss, except Severus surges into it, cupping Remus’ cheeks in his palms, like he’s something precious and dear, something Severus can’t bear to lose. Kisses Remus as if he’s thrown every ounce of feeling he has into it, turning short and sweet into long and lingering and so unbearably tender that Remus _trembles_ in Severus’ hold. 

“Keep kissing me like that, and I'll never leave,” Remus smiles against Severus’ mouth. He doesn't understand why Severus turns away then, sudden, and he reaches out to catch Severus’ wrist. Tugs Severus back into his space, not letting him hide like he wants to, not letting him _run_. “Severus,” Remus says slowly. “I _will_ be back.” 

It’s a _promise_ Remus knows he’s making. An oath that he knows he’ll uphold. 

Because deep in his heart of hearts, he’s wondered if Severus is afraid Remus won’t want him anymore, when he no longer turns at the full moon. If somewhere in Severus’ convoluted thoughts, he thinks Remus only stays because he’s dependent on Severus for the Wolfsbane. Of course, Remus intends to prove him wrong on every point—today, and every day after.

Severus' expression is shuttered. “We’ll see,” he says.

Remus is of a mind to scoff at that and say there’s no _we’ll see_ about it, since it’s a complete certainty that he’ll return, but he’s sure Severus will take that the wrong way. So he only ambushes Severus with a surprise trifecta of kisses—one to the nose, and one each to the spots of color on both cheeks—before waving cheerily and heading to the nearest Apparition point.

Something about Severus’ persistent wariness bothers Remus, however, and he finds that he’s muddled his destination and ended up in Diagon Alley instead. No matter—he would find his way to Knockturn Alley soon enough, and it would work in his favour, in fact, if he could find some book or trinket that interested Severus while he was here, to bring back as a gift. 

He’s just come out of Obscurus Books—empty-handed, as Severus already owns all their rarer potions tomes, and annotated them with his own notes—when someone calls out his name. 

“ _Harry_?” Remus blinks, startled, before waving back. “What are you doing down here?”

“It’s—well, I’ve been looking for rings,” Harry says, catching his breath from his jog down the street. He jerks a nod in the direction of the various jewellery vendors lining Diagon Alley.

Remus is of a mind to simply suggest Harry bring Ginny here herself to pick out the ring she wants, when Harry adds, smiling, “You’re looking well today. Had an interview for a job down here, did you?” 

“Oh, this?” Remus laughs, plucking at his clothes. “No. No, I just thought…since I was planning on making the cure for my curse permanent today, it might as well be an occasion for other changes as well.” He’d told Harry, during his weekly visits, of his stop at the witch’s shop and what the cure had entailed. 

Before Remus knows it, he’s been roped into accompanying Harry to a ‘place that has the best biscuits and rooibos tea this side of the Wizarding world’, something Harry promises won’t take too long, since he’s due to meet up with Ron later, anyway. 

Over the richest chocolate cream biscuits Remus has ever tasted, they talk about Harry’s still-fruitless search for the perfect ring. How he’s actually going to ask for Ginny’s hand in marriage, in terms of ambience and timing. And the words he should say, because according to Harry, Ron is absolutely no help at all in that area, since his own proposal consisted of _hey, fancy getting hitched?_ and Hermione ignoring him for a week, before realizing no poetry or prose were forthcoming and finally responding with a resigned _I suppose so_. 

“It’s just…” Harry sighs, frustrated. “I’ve fought a dragon, and Death Eaters, and _Voldemort_ , and—” He flaps a hand helplessly. “It shouldn’t be this hard.”

Remus laughs at the sentiment. It shouldn’t be that hard, but Merlin knows it wasn’t easy asking _Severus_ , either. 

“How did _you_ do it?” Harry asks. “You and Sna—Severus. I can’t imagine that proposing to him was a walk in the park either.”

“No,” Remus says, laughing, “it wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you that. But what I did was…” He trails off, blinking. He should _know_ this. He’d spent at least two weeks preparing for it, making sure it’d go off without a hitch. “I just…”

No, no, _no_ , the memory has to be there, Remus can’t be drawing a blank here—

All of a sudden, he’s struck with the same aching sense of loss he feels each time the moon passes, and it’s the moment of clarity, the instant he realizes just what it _is_ he’s been losing, what price he’s been paying to be rid of his curse.

It’s not his father’s watch, or his mother’s woollen afghan, or Remus’ magic itself. 

It’s _Severus_.

Suddenly, it all makes sense—the way he’d forgotten how Severus took his tea, their first kiss, and now— _now_ , the manner in which he’d proposed to Severus, knowing how nervous he’d been, how _hopeful_ , but coming up empty on everything else: where he’d done it, how he’d asked, the look on Severus’ face as he realized Remus wanted _forever_ with him.

It’s all gone. 

Instead of one large sacrifice, he’d been bartering bits and pieces of Severus away, each month taking another memory of his beloved in recompense.

And that starts Remus thinking, of all else he _could_ lose, that he can’t _bear_ to. Severus’ first genuine smile, when they’d got over their animosity of years past. The tiny uptilt of his mouth when Remus would take his hand, and their wedding bands would clink together. The tremble of Severus’ lower lip, before they’d consummated their marriage, the tremor in his fingers, long and lean and lovely, until Remus had leaned in, to kiss those very fingers and that fear away.

Three moons, the witch had said, to see the effect of his wish, and after that—Remus could make that change permanent. 

Recalling the words sends a shiver down Remus’ spine, because _permanent_ can only mean one thing. 

_The loss of something most dear_ , the witch had said, her smile wry.

And Remus has to wonder how he’d been blind for so long. That his most precious thing isn’t keepsakes of his parents or his magic, but _Severus_ , whom he’s taken for granted, Severus, who’s been there through Remus’ triumphs and defeats.

Severus, whom Remus hadn’t noticed being the very thing slipping through his hands, because he’d become as essential yet unnoticeable as air itself. 

“I—I have to go.” Remus rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated. _Blind, blind, blind_. “I’m sorry Harry, I’ll have to catch up with you another day.”

Harry blinks, surprised. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” says Remus, though it comes out as more of a growl, because _everything_ is wrong, and there is nothing Harry can do to make it right again. _Everything_ is wrong, and he has to—he needs to see Severus, to hear his voice, to know he hasn’t lost him completely. And it’s moments later that Remus realizes he’d Apparated straight out of the café to their house. 

It’s a wonder he hadn’t splinched himself on the way, with how distracted he was. 

“Severus?” Remus calls, bursting through the front door. “ _Severus_.” 

He doesn’t bother with the _I’m home_ he usually says, a joke between them, since Severus once said he wasn’t some housewife to have Remus’ arrival chirped at him, though Remus had caught the tiniest twitch of Severus’ smile, and kept the habit anyway. Doesn’t bother shuffling his way into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea first, or settle in his chair to enjoy the paper. He just throws open door after door, stalking through each room, calling out Severus’ name in hopes that he’ll get an answer, something, _anything_ —

But there’s no response. 

And the man he loves is nowhere to be found.


	2. Decisions Made

~

Remus keeps at his search, throwing open the door to their bedroom. The cellar. The tiny kitchen where Severus distils his potions and drives off the noxious fumes. The storage where Severus keeps his potion supplies, shelves meticulously ordered and jars labelled. The room they’ve designated as their library, the shelves filled floor to ceiling with books, tomes pilfered from Hogwarts, Grimmauld Place, and various shops around the city.

There’s still no sign of Severus, and Remus feels a coal of dread settle in his belly. Had the witch gone back on her word? Taken the last, the _final_ payment, thinking Remus’ absence meant he agreed to the terms, and the cure?

“Severus!” he calls again, desperate, and this time he lets the beginnings of a howl slip into his voice. Before he knows it, Severus has stormed down the stairs, scowling with the fury of a hurricane. 

“What’s all this racket—” Severus starts, pallid cheeks flushed with color, before he stops and stands stock-still at the staircase. “Remus?” he asks, an expression of utter hope and surprise in his eyes. He’s as uncertain as Remus has ever heard him, before he jabs a finger in Remus’ direction and launches into a familiar tirade. “I’ll have you _know_ I was just working on—”

“Oh, thank _Merlin_ ,” Remus gasps, the sound of Severus being his usual self easing the twisting tightness in his chest. And before he starts thanking another pantheon of witches and wizards, Remus hurries up the few short steps and closes the distance between them. Cups Severus’ cheeks in his hands and kisses him, needing his warmth, his touch, to know Severus is _here_. To know Remus hasn’t lost him completely, like he’d been afraid of. 

Severus’ eyebrows jump into his hairline, but as always, he gives in, pliant in Remus’ arms, safe in the knowledge that Remus will tell him what’s wrong after.

“I want—” Remus tries. “I need—” 

_I need_ you, he thinks. All _of you_. But the words stay mired in his mouth, heavy, thick, like molasses of Muggle confectioneries. “Severus, _please_.”

Severus nods, even as he huffs out an annoyed breath through his teeth, and leads Remus by the hand to their room.

They barely make it to the bed, before Remus unknots and wrenches the sash from Severus’ dressing gown, Severus upending Remus’ robes over his head with desperation just as wild. But it’s still too much, too many layers and false things between them, and Remus can’t bear it anymore, banishing the rest with a quick charm, because he needs Severus, needs him this very _instant_.

“Remus,” Severus whispers, pulling him higher on the bed, gasping as Remus falls on top of him, driving the breath from his lungs. “Please.”

Remus wants him so much, so _badly_ , but he decides to take his time preparing Severus, by summoning the bottle of lubrication from their nighttable first. 

Severus glares as the bottle leaps into Remus’ hand. “There’s a charm for that,” he says irritably, rocking his hips up toward Remus, insistent, as if annoyed that Remus is not inside him right _now_. 

Remus grits his teeth against the insistent tease of Severus’ hips against his, the hard line of his cock against Remus’ hip. Yes, there were the standard charms to prepare Severus, to stretch and lubricate properly, but there was something in the way he did this, with his fingers, one, then two, that felt more primal and raw and _real_.

That, and the fact that Remus doesn’t want to hurt Severus, as much as he wants him.

He’s up to three fingers, four, before Severus keens high in his throat, and rocks his arse into Remus’ fingers, needy, wanting. “Remus,” he rasps, his voice strangled, as he clutches the sheets. “Please. _Now_.”

Remus nods, unable to hold on any longer himself, and he makes short work of slicking himself up. Replaces fingers with cock and lines things up, before pressing inside Severus, rocking, as they share kisses, biting, nipping, _hard_ , to mouth and jaw and neck. 

“Need you,” Remus breathes, hooking his arms beneath Severus’ shoulders, and _pulling_ him in. Relishes the strangled cry Severus makes as Remus buries himself deep inside, hot and hard, the way Severus twines his legs over Remus’ waist. And Merlin, the way his breath blows hot against Remus’ cheeks is a reminder that he’s here, he’s here, he’s here. 

But it’s _still_ not enough, because he needs to know he has Severus in every way, every form, still has him in his grasp, because the fear that’d plagued Remus just moments ago, knowing he’d almost lost Severus completely, still haunts him. So when Severus urges _harder_ and _faster_ , bucking his hips into Remus, Remus obliges, slamming in with as much force as he can muster. He knows there’ll be a time for lovemaking, the gentle kind they both enjoy during early mornings and lazy afternoons, but this isn’t it. 

“More,” Severus begs, his fingers clutching at Remus’ shoulders, tight. “Make me remember this.”

There’s something about Severus’ request that doesn’t seem right, but Remus is too far gone to just _stop_ and ask—that’s for later, for when they’ve crested the wave building between them—so he hitches Severus’ legs over his shoulders. Presses deep inside, revelling in the startled gasp he draws from Severus, the way his eyes fly open, wide. 

_Mine_ , thinks Remus, his hands coming up to grip Severus’ ankles, hard. _Mine_. 

For a moment, Remus wonders if this possessiveness comes from the wolf rising to the surface, not uncommon on days before and after the moon. But then he remembers that he hasn’t felt the wolf in _months_ now, due to the cure, which means this ferocity is all Remus, spurred by fear and dread at the things he’d nearly given up. Fear that’s driven away by the sight of Severus’ mouth, slack with pleasure. The sound of his cries, that Severus tries to stifle with a hand over his mouth, but fails with each subsequent thrust. The hopeful clutch of Severus’ fingers on Remus’ hips, tight, possessive, raking bloody crescents into skin. 

To think, he'd almost given this up, for a chance at ridding himself of the curse. That he had come so close to losing Severus, without even _knowing_ it. The thought of that has him pushing _hard_ inside Severus, as if by doing so, by becoming as one as possible with him, Remus will know he hasn’t lost him, hasn’t foolishly given him away in a bargain he didn’t even know he’d made.

“Remus,” Severus whispers, a near-sob, as his fingers move to clutch the sheets, balling them in his fists with each deep and brutal thrust. “Mark me. Make me _yours_.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice, before Remus is biting bruises into Severus’ ankles. His calves. Letting Severus’ legs slip from Remus’ shoulders before working his way up, leaving a trail of wine-dark kisses along the line of Severus’ chest. His collarbone. The long, pale column of his neck. “Mine,” he growls, daring to voice the words aloud, now that Severus has given permission. Sucks the deepest port-wine bruise into skin, between Severus’ shoulder and neck—a mark of ownership. Proof of Remus’ possession. “ _Mine_.”

It strikes him as strange then, that Severus is being so careful, too careful, not to return the favour in kind, when he normally has no such compunctions.

“Yours too,” Remus says, nudging his nose into the warmth of Severus’ neck. Butting it against Severus’ nose, the way he does when he’s the wolf on nights of the full moon, playful. 

Severus’ eyes fill with an unnamed hurt at that, and Remus hears something that sounds like _no_ , or _not for long_. But Remus isn’t above begging to get what he wants in return, and at the words _Severus, please_ , accompanied by eyes wide and imploring, Severus gives in, leaning up to touch a tiny, bruising kiss against Remus’ chest. Just over his heart. 

The mark will fade in less than an hour, but it’s enough that Severus obliges him in the first place—and hadn’t that been the story of their life, Remus obliging in leaps and bounds, while Severus followed, hesitant, with stops and starts aplenty—and it’s not long before Remus feels it, the telltale coil of pleasure winding tight in his spine, his balls, the building of pressure and heat for a single moment of release. 

“Severus,” he gasps. “I—”

“Inside,” Severus urges. “ _Inside me_.” He winds his arms around Remus’ neck, too tight. “Let me feel you.” 

His lips are an alluring cherry-red, kiss-bitten and swollen, and Remus surges in to take, to give as Severus wants, to _feel_ , just as much as Severus demands. Angles himself just so, until he knows by Severus’ cries that he’s striking the right spot, savouring the moment when Severus’ brow furrows, tight, and he tosses his head back, exposing the column of his throat, pale and smooth and glistening with sweat, that Remus has to sink teeth into, rough.

“Remus,” Severus sobs. His cock twitches hard, painting his belly with come, a stippling of precious pearls along a pale and lovely canvas. “ _Remus_.”

He doesn’t know whether it’s the sound of his name, spoken on Severus’ lips like it’s a prayer, reverent and awed, or the way Severus contracts around him, tight, but Remus spills inside him a moment after, hot and deep and wet. Pulls Severus toward him, relishing the way Severus cries out at the motion, while pushing in the deepest he can, to fill him, _flood_ him with his seed.

“ _Yes_ ,” Severus whispers, trembling. “Make me remember this.” 

And yes, Remus remembers he’d begged for that earlier, with those exact words. With such odd earnestness. It makes him want to ask Severus what he means, because Remus must _know_ , but that can wait, because what he needs right now is to wind himself around Severus, and fit against him, perfect. To let Severus know how much he’s loved, and treasured.

Remus waits until their breaths have slowed, and Severus’ fingers loosen from around his shoulders, before letting himself slip out, slow. Mutters the smallest and most harmless of cleansing charms—it’d been a surprise to find out Severus _liked_ the scent of sex and sweat and the feeling of Remus’ issue deep inside him, proof of their union—before shifting onto his side, like Severus.

“All right?” Remus whispers. He touches a kiss to Severus’ forehead, where sweat’s matted his dark hair to skin, like an errant swirl of ink, wild and unruly. Tucks a lock of hair that’s fallen over Severus’ brow behind his ear, gentle, cradling his cheek in a palm.

Severus hums his assent and leans into the touch, making a sound that’s close to a purr and every kind of adorable—not that Remus would admit it, if he didn’t want to die a slow, painful death by Severus’ hand. 

“Good,” says Remus, letting his eyes slip shut for a moment. It’s only been several hours since they woke, but already he feels exhausted, and for now Remus simply wants to curl into Severus and burrow into his warmth forever. Wants to tuck himself up against him, his skin hot against Severus’, and whisper, _I love you, I love you, and I’ll never stop._

_Not for a cure._

_Not for anything_.

But he knows Severus won’t appreciate the surfeit of sentiment threatening to overflow from Remus’ heart, so he keeps the words inside. Lets them warm his heart, his chest, and every fibre of his being, to be doled out sparingly in the days to come. Rationed out in tiny, heartfelt portions that Severus, in his own way, can accept. 

Which means he's content to simply enjoy Severus’ warmth and cuddle into him, when Severus suddenly says, “I assume you're going to tell me the reason for this oddly-timed venture.”

Remus opens his eyes and sighs. _Right_. He remembers now, bursting into their house and shouting Severus’ name at the top of his lungs, storming through every room to find him. And he'd hoped this conversation could wait, but evidently not. 

“About that,” Remus says, slipping an arm around Severus’ waist, and hitching him closer. Tighter. “I’ve been thinking, and I…I’m sorry. The price of the cure is…well, it’s rather steeper than I thought.” 

He’s sorry, because he thought there’d been a chance, to rid himself of the form that’d given Severus nightmares for years. He’s sorry because he thought there’d been a hope that he wouldn’t have to trouble Severus to brew his Wolfsbane potion each and every month.

He’s sorry he’s selfish, because as much as he wants those other things, he wants to keep Severus far, far more.

“You’re _sorry_.” Severus’ voice is inordinately cold, compared to the warmth of his skin, his breath against Remus’ mouth. “Finally figured it out then, have you?”

Remus blinks. “It took my memories,” he says. “Of _you_.”

“Yes, yes, that’s all,” Severus says dismissively. And before Remus can tell him that that wasn’t _all_ at all, that those memories were, in fact, _everything_ , Severus adds, “I suppose this is your way of telling me this is the end. How kind of you to afford me that little courtesy.” 

“The end?” Remus furrows a brow. “Severus, what are you talking about?”

Severus only gestures half-heartedly between them. At their room. The house in general. All vestiges of the life they’ve built together. “The end of us. Of everything. You have a chance at obtaining what you’ve wanted _all your life_ , after all.”

“I wasn’t—” Remus pinches the bridge of his nose, confused at how things had gone so wrong, so quickly. How Severus could have got the idea that Remus was telling him he was giving Severus up. “Severus,” he says very slowly, very quiet, “I was only going to say the price of this cure was too high. That I wasn’t planning on going through with it.” 

Still, it hurts something in him to know that Severus had immediately decided Remus would weigh what years they had shared together against a lifetime of prejudice and isolation and find _Severus_ wanting. 

Remus reaches out to cradle Severus’ cheek in his palm again, gentle. Draws in a brave breath. “It isn’t a cure, anyhow, it’s a curse in itself; I’d only be trading one cursed existence for another—being the wolf, or being without love.”

Something softens in Severus’ expression at that, as if his fears that Remus would give him up without batting an eye are assuaged, before his brows knit and he turns away. “You should do it,” he says eventually. His voice is too quiet. “It’s…” He draws in a tight breath. “I know how much you’ve wanted this. You can be _free_.”

Remus, who’d had to bite back a wounded sound at the loss of Severus’ touch, simply blinks. “Free of _what_ , Severus?”

Severus shifts further away and breathes out, summoning what seems like every ounce of scorn he can manage into his next words. “Free from the curse, and the pain of transformation each month. Free from _me_.” When Remus stares at him, mouth open in a small _o_ of incredulity, Severus only snorts. “You cannot honestly tell me you didn’t figure this out sooner.”

“No, I only—” Remus says, remembering how he’d felt like the world was crumbling around him, when he’d found out the true price of his cure this morning. Then he hears what’s implied from Severus’ words. “When did you—”

“The morning after the first moon,” says Severus. When Remus only narrows his eyes, confused, Severus sighs. “The sugar, Remus, do keep up.”

“Wait—you knew, even _then_? And you let me keep going? You—” The words taste like bile on Remus’ tongue, bitter and hurt, and he draws back, staring at the man he thought he knew, thought he loved. “You would’ve _let_ me forget you. Forget everything we had, that we _are_ to each other. The years between us.” He knows he’s raising his voice, but this has him well and truly angry, and he can feel his hands balled into fists, trembling. “Did they meaning _nothing_ to you?” 

Severus waves a hand, dismissive, as if all these things Remus is listing—precious moments Remus hadn’t realized he’d cherished until they were utterly _gone_ —are of little consequence. “You would have found another, in time.”

“I don’t _want_ another,” Remus snaps. “I want _you_.” The gravity of that sentence strikes him suddenly, because when he says he doesn’t want another, he means exactly that. Another life, free from the curse of his lycanthropy. Another lover, that Severus thinks he would have found, in his new and improved state.

Severus’ eyes had flown wide at the revelation, for no more than a brief second, but it takes him no longer to recover, the lines around his mouth tightening, his eyes narrowing, dark, dangerous. “Oh, yes,” he sneers. “I know very well what you _want_ ,” he says. “A life of poverty. A life of living hand to mouth, from job to job.”

Remus knows he has a point, and he can’t help but _wonder_ what a life without his curse would be like. He would finally have a real job, and two knuts to rub together, sickles even, _galleons_ if he was careful. He would have stability, instead of drifting from one type of work to another, depending on the rare kindnesses of other wizards and the meagre menial jobs of Muggles.

But Severus isn’t done yet, his tirade a barrage of sleet and rain, so different from the warmth and love they’d shared in bed only short moments ago. “That’s right,” Severus says, his voice like the sharpest shard of ice. “What you _want_ is a lifetime of…” He closes his eyes and sucks in a soft breath, as if it pains him to say this, the motion so brief that had Remus blinked, he would have missed it. “Of living off _my_ charity. Isn’t that right, Lupin?”

Remus flinches, because the barb cuts deep—as it was meant to, he’s sure. The fact that Severus has started calling him _Lupin_ again stings doubly so. It had felt like such a hard-won victory, when Severus had finally called him _Remus_ , the night they’d put their animosities aside for good. When Remus had reached out again, after long years, to twine his fingers with Severus’, and they’d sat together in silence in the stairway of Grimmauld Place, until Dumbledore had called another meeting of the Order.

He remembers that, at least. Spares a moment to thank whatever gods above have spared him this memory. 

“I see I’ve made my point,” says Severus. He smiles, cold and cruel, but Remus knows it isn’t real, that Severus can’t be taking pleasure from this, from having flayed Remus alive with his words. 

Because Remus _knows_ the real smiles, rare but all the lovelier for them. Remembers the way Severus had tilted his head back in the sun, the smile reaching his eyes, when they’d gone picnicking, and Remus had shown him the pouch of dragon scales he’d got Severus as a gift, unbidden. The way Severus had smiled, soft and lazy after they’d made love for the first time. And the moment, suspended, when Severus’ mouth had fallen slack in surprise, as Remus cupped his cheek and whispered _I love you_ —the first he’d voiced the words aloud—before widening into a smile that was so _hopeful_ and grateful and brighter than the sun. 

Remus finds himself fighting to hold onto these memories, fighting to hold onto what he can of Severus, because losing these, losing _him_ would be too much for Remus to bear.

“Stop,” Remus says. “ _Stop_ this.” He knows what Severus is doing, and it will _not_ work. It is hardly the first time that Severus has tried to drive him away with words, biting and cruel, to protect himself, or to do what he thinks is _best_. 

But the truth of it is, it _does_ work. Severus has always had a way of doing that, laying truths out bare, stripping them to their basest forms, flayed and raw and open until it _hurt_ to hear them said. He had done the same when trying to send Remus away shortly after killing Dumbledore. Yet Remus had hung doggedly on, still believing in the best of Severus, and the heart he'd revealed, on quieter nights when they'd talked and kissed and touched, uninterrupted. 

_I will not give you away_ , Remus had promised, of the long and dangerous game Severus had been playing, for both the Order and for Voldemort. _But I will not_ go _away_. 

“You should choose what you’ve always wanted,” Severus says now, as if he’s grown bored of this strain of conversation. “It should be obvious to you by now.”

Remus doesn't have to be a Legilimens to know that Severus has thrown up barriers around himself, a fortress of walls upon walls; he only needs to take in the empty eyes, the hollow voice, to know how heavily Severus has shielded himself from hurt—something he hasn't done with Remus for years.

“Yes,” says Remus, swallowing hard. “ _Obvious_. I see my priorities have been made quite clear to me.” He hardens his expression when Severus turns for the briefest moment, before his gaze flicks away again. “In fact,” Remus adds, more determined than ever, tongue darting out to touch his lips, because he can’t be wrong about this, he just _can’t_ , “I’ve made up my mind. The only mystery here is why I thought I had any choice at all.”

“Well, then,” says Severus, his voice too hoarse by half. “You’ve no time to waste, have you?

“No time to waste,” Remus nods solemnly. He’d had three moons, free of the curse. It could be a lifetime of moons, if only he would reach out his hand, to take this chance.

He reaches out to take Severus into his arms instead. Presses in close, until Severus turns in his arms, mouth dropping open to berate him, to—

“Thank you, Severus,” Remus whispers, pre-empting the poison that Severus might turn his way. He touches his lips to Severus’, heartfelt, sincere. It feels too much like a _last_ kiss, but this is all he can give Severus now, to show him how it is Remus feels.

“For what?” says Severus, his voice still flat, cold. “The years of brewing your Wolfsbane potion? Warming your bed?” As if everything they’d shared could be distilled into such base and simple things. 

“For loving me,” says Remus.

At that, Severus’ expression _crumples_ , the mask slipping for all of a moment, and something twists in Remus’ chest at the sight. He wishes he could stay, to press more kisses to Severus mouth, his eyelids, his nose, soft and safe and precious. To show him how much he’s cherished and adored. But he’s only got as far as cupping Severus’ cheeks in his hands when Severus croaks, “ _Stop_.” Pushes Remus forcibly from the bed. “Go,” he says. 

He turns away then, bundling himself into the bedding, as if the warm, woven sheets are some kind of barricade between him and Remus, keeping him safe from harm and hurt.

This is how it ends: without bitter farewells or caustic recriminations, only a resigned and exhausted _go_.

“You’re right,” Remus says flatly, slipping out of the bed and standing stiffly. He throws on a simple shirt and trousers, before scooping his robe up from where it lies, a dishevelled heap on the floor. “There’s no time to waste at all.” He’s made his decision, and he’ll stand by it. 

Still, it pains him that Severus won’t look at him as he leaves. Won’t see him to the door. Instead, what’s waiting for Remus at the door is an overnight bag, one that Severus has packed for him—presumably in the time Remus had been away—with all of Remus’ possessions shrunken down to fit. 

As if Severus had only ever been waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for Remus to realize what the terrible price of his ‘cure’ would be. Assuming that Remus, upon discovering just what it was he had to give up, would huff _oh, is that all_ , and continue merrily on his way, to find the happiness he’d always sought. 

Would leave without a second glance, and once cured, would never return, because he wouldn’t remember what he had, to return _to_.

“Oh, Severus,” Remus says softly, the ache in his chest growing into a palpable throb of pain. Presses a fist to his mouth to stifle the sob threatening to burst free at how _selfless_ the man he loves is, how sad it is he must hide it all behind a shell of cold disdain.

He's sorely tempted to turn back, to crawl into bed with Severus and hold him, and tell him how much he's been loved. How he's not the _less_ that he thinks he is, always passed over for another, a better, a superior. How what he’s doing here proves he’s not the lesser man he believes he is—being willing to give up what they have so Remus can live the life he’s wanted, be the better version of himself he’s always wanted to be, just putting Remus above all else, even Severus’ own wants and desires—a thought that breaks Remus’ heart all over again. 

But he knows Severus will only see what he wants to see, and hear what he wants to hear. Besides, they are long past the time for words now.

So with a heavy heart, Remus reaches out, and does what he needs to with the bag—Severus’ last send-off, so carefully and lovingly packed. Leaves quietly, knowing what he needs to do. 

Actions speak louder than words, after all.

~

“It’s done now, Harry,” Remus says, as they wait for their drinks to arrive. And when Harry opens his mouth to protest, Remus adds quickly, “What’s done is done.”

“Still,” Harry says, frowning, “I never thought the price would be so high. And the memories you gave up? Will those—”

“No,” says Remus. He lets out a long, slow breath. “Those won’t come back either. The shop practices a ‘no refunds’ policy, it seems.” The witch had left shortly after, disappearing along with her shop, and Remus wouldn’t be able to recover the memories he’d given up, even if he tried. 

Harry nods sadly. “Was it worth it, then?” he asks. “What you decided in the end?”

Remus pauses for a beat, before turning to where Severus stands at the bar of The Leaky Cauldron, hemming and hawing with Tom over the price of their celebratory Butterbeer floats. “Yes,” he says, as the widest smile breaks over his face. “It was worth it.”

With a wistful sigh, Harry picks at a chip in the table. He doesn’t go so far as to say _how romantic_ , but Remus can see it in the dreamy expression on his face. 

Severus balances their tray of drinks with his usual grace, having decided it would be faster to fetch them himself, and scowls as he sets down each drink. “What sentimental rubbish are you spouting now?” he asks. 

Harry splutters and throws Remus an incredulous look, as if wondering how he puts up with Severus, though Remus arches a brow, amused. “How did you know I was spouting sentimentalities at all?” he replies, smile not dimming in the slightest.

“I heard the sound of deeply worshipful, envious sighing,” says Severus. He takes a seat beside Remus, shifting until he’s found a comfortable position on the gimp-legged chair.

Remus only hums noncommittally in response, and winds their hands together beneath the table. Throws Harry a meaningful look across the table, as if to tell him that there may be many of said sentimentalities coming forthwith, and he needn’t stay if it will make him uncomfortable. 

They had only just finished helping Harry pick out the ring he would use in his own proposal—the perusal was to be just with Remus at first, but he and Severus had had made plans beforehand, and Remus insisted Severus came part and parcel with himself, which Harry hadn’t protested at all—before Harry said he would treat them to drinks at the The Leaky Cauldron, as thanks. But this is Remus’ way of giving him an out, in case Harry doesn’t want to be subject to two middle-aged wizards puzzling out their relationship and miscommunications. 

Harry seems to sense this might be a conversation better left to the two of them, and after downing his ice cream-slathered Butterbeer in an astounding ten seconds and an awkward round of light Quidditch discussion, he makes his excuses to leave. “I just, well—” he says, his own happiness shining through, despite the anxiety, “I have something important to do.” He fumbles at the box Remus knows lies in his pocket now, velvet-lined and safe. 

“Good luck, Harry,” Remus beams, as Severus mutters, _I trust you not to botch this one up_ , which Remus knows is Severus-speak for _good luck, Harry_.

Harry nods, beaming at having both their blessings. “Thanks. And, er—same time next week?” he adds, hopeful, regarding their usual tea get-together. He looks to Severus, knowing he has as much say as Remus in matters such as these, if not more. “I might—if things go well—bring a guest, if that’s all right.”

Severus inclines his head, and with that permission, Harry tears out of the The Leaky Cauldron, like a boy—no, a man with a _mission_. 

Remus laughs as he watches Harry slam the door behind him, then return sheepishly to close it more gently. There’s an odd twinge of loss in his chest, as Remus tries to recall his own proposal to Severus, and while he manages to remember the nervousness, the anticipation, and how there’d been such _joy_ , there’s nothing else. Thankfully, Severus is generous enough to share what he remembers of the experience, to fill in the gaps of Remus’ memory. 

“Well?” says Severus. He nods toward the door where Harry has taken off at breakneck speed, as if it’s safe to speak now. “What were you _really_ talking about?”

“Harry was asking me if it was worth it,” says Remus. “Giving up the chance of a cure for my curse.”

“And was it?” Severus asks. He stirs the quenelle of vanilla ice cream into his Butterbeer with a practiced disdain that means he is only too curious for the answer.

“Severus,” Remus says, raising his eyebrows meaningfully, a look that means Severus should _know_. As if there was any room for doubt in the first place.

They’d had this conversation before, when Remus returned from Knockturn Alley that day, a short hour later, to say cryptically, _it is done_ —though by his very presence, it was obvious what he _had_ done. 

Severus had shouted and thrown hexes and furniture, before stalking off in a huff, his robes swirling around him. And when Remus followed him up, after casting a few hasty mending charms, to slip into bed and tuck himself behind Severus, Severus had turned in his arms, his own coming to wind around Remus’ shoulders, tight, as if he would never let Remus go again. 

_You’re a fool_ , he had whispered against Remus’ chest. His throat. The softness behind his ear. 

_I’m a fool_ , Remus had agreed, smothering a laugh in Severus’ hair. _For you_. He’d carded fingers through it, watching the wispy strands curl around his fingers, familiar, safe. He had decided he would keep this. Would keep Severus, for as long as he was able. 

“I didn’t think you’d…” Severus says now, slowly. “Didn’t dare hope…” He clears his throat. “You asked why I didn’t tell you, the moment I discovered what the cost for curing your lycanthropy was.” As Remus nods encouragingly, Severus continues, “I thought…if I told you, you’d simply get your cure straightaway.” He bows his head. “I just—you said there were three moons until you had to decide. And I thought, if I could keep you for just a little longer, until that time ran out, I could let you go.”

“Severus,” Remus says, quiet, his heart aching in his chest. Severus had been driven into secrecy by one tiny, selfish need—to keep Remus by his side until the last possible moment. 

“Even if it was just for a while—to know that I was the dearest thing to you in the world was enough. I could let you go, knowing that.” Severus’ voice is more worn and tired than it should be, as if he’d been fighting the battle for far longer than Remus had been aware of. “I would’ve let it happen,” Severus says, his hands dropping to his lap, tightening into fists. “You, making the cure permanent. I wanted you to be happy.”

Remus is torn between weeping and laughing at how they’d got it so wrong between them, but doesn’t want to risk Severus thinking he’s laughing at _him_. So he reaches out and tips Severus’ chin up, until he can look into Severus’ eyes. “I’m happiest,” Remus says slowly, so there’s no mistaking the meaning behind his words, “when I’m with _you_.”

Severus draws himself up with a haughty sniff, even if Remus isn’t fooled by his bravado. “Well, how was I supposed to know _that_?” The charmed straw-spoon continues revolving in place while Severus’ long fingers close around the fluted glass, too pale, trembling. “All you _told_ me that day was that you’d set your priorities straight.” Severus stares into his glass, as if the sugar granules at the bottom could yield Divination secrets far darker and more profound than any of Trelawney’s tea leaves. 

Remus slips one hand to the small of Severus’ back, rubbing soft, soothing circles to reassure. His other closes over Severus’ fingers on the glass, warm, stilling them. “So I did,” he smiles. 

By the way Severus returns his smile with the barest hint of his own, tiny, barely-there, but a smile all the same, Remus knows he finally understands. _You are my priority_. 

They’re silent for the span of a heartbeat, two, before Severus says, “You do realize this means you’ll have to continue to take the Wolfsbane potion every month.”

“Yes,” says Remus, remembering the foul taste of it, bitter, noxious, in his mouth. But the sweetness of Severus’ kisses will more than make up for it. “I’m sure I shall manage, somehow.”

“And you’ll continue to suffer my ‘tyrannical rule’ of thematically organized bookshelves and cupboard spices,” says Severus.

Remus, who used to organize his own meagre bookshelves alphabetically and never stayed long enough in one place to even _have_ spices, has long grown used to these things. “Yes,” says Remus, his grin growing broader with each supposed fault Severus lists. “I have considered that as well.”

“ _And_ ,” Severus adds, as if floundering for more things to add to his rapidly diminishing list of demands, “you will…not complain when I borrow the bulk of your mother’s afghan to cover my feet when we read.”

“Of course,” Remus beams. He thinks the more appropriate word is _steal_ , but he would gladly suffer the way Severus steals the bulk of the afghan, pulling it to his chest, leaving just enough to cover Remus’ knees, their feet twining gently as they read together on the loveseat. Or the way he swirls it around his own shoulders, leaving only enough for Remus’ lap and their joined hands while they watch Muggle films, Severus pointing out the banalities of all the plots, ruining the endings of mysteries, and criticizing the practices of movie spies, including one spirited discourse on James Bond that began with ‘that imbecile would have died _ten_ times over by now’. 

Because it meant he _would_ be able to share those quiet evenings with Severus. Instead of drawing an utter blank, never knowing what had given Remus such happiness on so many nights.

He would have the memory of those nights still, and the promise of all the nights after.

“If you’re quite done with your drink,” says Severus, “Flourish and Blotts is having a signing for their new line of potions books.” As Remus lifts a brow, Severus adds hastily, “I haven’t an interest in the signing itself, but I was thinking we might browse their new offerings.” He finishes by scowling at their drinks, as if he can’t believe anyone would _like_ this over-sugared dreck.

Remus only laughs, letting his hand press more snugly into the small of Severus’ back. Letting the warmth of Severus’ skin seep into his palm, an assurance that Remus hasn’t lost him, in his blind desperation for a cure. Then he winds it more fully about Severus’ waist and tugs him closer, undaunted by the number of eyes and ears about in The Leaky Cauldron. 

And when Severus knits their left hands together, cautious, careful, Remus smiles, his heart filling with affection enough to burst, because the tiny _clink_ their rings make, pressed together, is not only a reminder of the promises they’d sworn to uphold, but _proof_. That he is still Severus’, as much as Severus is _his_. 

And perhaps Remus had lost the memory of how _that_ came to be, but in time, he and Severus would make—

“From the besotted look on your face, I suspect you’re harbouring the foolish sentiment that ‘we can make new memories now, to replace the ones we’ve lost’,” Severus says. His lip curls in distaste, though Remus doesn’t need to look closely to know there’s a tiny tug of a smile hidden in the motion. A sign, then, that Severus hardly minds the besotted look and foolish sentiment he claims to berate Remus for.

“I—” Remus tries to deny, before his smile breaks into a grin, broad and wide and genuine. “Yes,” he says softly. He lets his hand slip away from Severus’, and stands to signal that their business here is done, before knitting his fingers with Severus other hand, gentle. “And we have the rest of our lives to do it.”

“The rest of our lives,” Severus murmurs, in wonder and gratefulness both. “Indeed.” 

And as they step out into the bright, sun-lit day and set forth down the cobbled stones of Diagon Alley, they proceed to do exactly that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap for this fic! Hope you all had as much reading this offering for the Summerfest as I did writing it! :D


End file.
